Seven
by TinaBanina96
Summary: Men are not punished for their sins, but by them… Seven one-hundred-word windows of seven nations.


**Title:** Seven**  
****Author: **TinaBanina96**  
****Summary:** Men are not punished for their sins, but by them… Seven one-hundred-word windows of seven nations.

**AN:** **Another one shot… I've actually had a brilliant, if ridiculously busy week. I know, I know, I should definitely be writing more of AN and LotL…**

**DISCLAIMER: **** I have no ownership of Hetalia at all.**

* * *

**Seven**

_Men are not punished for their sins, but by them  
-Elbert Hubbard_

* * *

_i._

It is slow smiles and batting lashes, silk sheets and fine wines.

That is what he is known for, what they all believe him to be made of, so why would he want to prove them wrong?

One by one they will fall before him, and one by one he will take them. They will never stay longer than needed. They will be gone with the rays of the all too bright sun, and leave behind not a trace of themselves with him.

It is how it has been, how it will always be.

Who is he to need love?

* * *

_ii._

Over three hundred million people are his. Over three hundred million mouths, three hundred million lives, each with its own wants and needs.

It is no wonder he is always craving.

Their voices sound in his head; more more more…

He cannot block them out, cannot tell them to just stop and give something back. So he screams silently with the crowd, as it consumes everything it touches, regardless of what will happen when everything is gone.

One day he will collapse, but until then, he will just keep taking and taking and taking.

He doesn't know how to stop.

* * *

_iii._

He recalls the surge of adrenaline in his veins, remembers the ships that sailed over endless seas and through threatening storms, seeking fortune from foreign lands.

His kingdom may not have been gained through fair means, but in the end, he always won, didn't he?

He _was_ a conqueror.

No.

He _is _a conqueror.

The world is a large place, and there are still things he has not seen, has not made his.

The splatters of blood and reek of gunpowder is a small price to pay for glory, utter glory.

He is the Empire and the Empire is great.

* * *

_iv._

Who?

They always ask him.

Who are you again?

That is, if they can see him at all. Which is not always the case, but it frustrates him nonetheless.

Not that he can do much about it, as there is simply no point. He will remind them, and time after time, they will forget his name, his presence, his being…

His existence.

Of course he is tired of it. But he is too tired to change it.

So he simply stops trying to make them remember. Too much hassle, really.

In the end it is less work staying invisible. Right?

* * *

_v._

Sometimes he just gets… angry.

The little things get to him.

It starts small, a spark inside his chest, fed with poisonous thoughts, and grows, slowly, setting him ablaze until it is a white hot bonfire and it is scalding him.

So he lashes out to relieve himself of that painful burn in his chest and the smoke that clouds his eyes.

He burns those around him, razes them to their bones. Those around him are destroyed by him, in his oblivious fury.

When the flames are doused, he finds it is not enough.

The ember never really goes out.

* * *

_vi._

Some may call it resentment, or jealousy.

He prefers to call it a healthy awareness of the opinions of those around him regarding his brother and himself.

It is a fact that he will never have the same love, the same adoration heaped on his little baby brother. Who would prefer the storm clouds and thunder over sunshine and rainbows?

Screw it all. He doesn't need them telling him what he is. In fact, he hates their opinions.

After all, he knows he is second best. He's been told from birth.

Isn't that what the world believes of him anyway?

* * *

_vii._

He has never been one that was good at letting go. He will not fall, no matter how hard they might push. He will hold on, with all of whatever meager strength he has left.

Every bone in his hand could break, and he would still hold his head high, clench his fists tight and refuse to bow down.

Stubborn? yes. Wrong? no.

Old age brings wisdom and experience, and age is something he has plenty of.

They say he is a blind old fool, closing himself off from the world, but he thinks they're blind.

He is always correct.

* * *

**I hope you can tell who is who. A little bit of a depressing take on things, I know. I'm not really sure what I was thinking while writing this. I kind of had a vague 'sins' thing going on, but honestly it kind of got away from me.**


End file.
